


Fire and Fury

by mresundance



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Love Bites, Love/Hate, M/M, Omega Verse, Omega Will Graham, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this Tumblr prompt: My favorite AU is animosity heavy arranged marriage AUs.</p><p>For the time being this story is complete and there are no plans to add future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted here on Tumblr.](http://mresundance.tumblr.com/post/143246577262/my-favorite-au-is-animosity-heavy-arranged)

Hannibal despised his omega, and the omega despised him in return. It made for quite comfortable dinners together.

“How is the meat?” Hannibal asked. He took a drink of wine, red and blood-rich.

“It’s delicious,” the omega, Will, said, sounding as though he’d just been forced to eat filth rather than filet mignon.

“I made the filet mignon just for you, Will,” Hannibal said. “I smelled your heat.”

Will’s eyes went flinty, the way they did when he was enraged, but he otherwise said nothing. He did push the rest of his filet mignon to the edge of his plate, and pointedly ate his asparagus.

Hannibal smiled smugly and drank more wine.

Will looked but did not look at Hannibal. He stole glances: eyeing Hannibal’s shoulders; his hands; the curve of his lips.

Hannibal knew what Will was looking at because he looked at Will openly. He watched him: the way Will took the fork in hand and calculated his chances; the way he glared at Hannibal every time he caught Hannibal gazing at him; the small stretch he always did before leaving. His shoulders always bunched so sullenly as he went back to his suite with his books.

It was a smaller suite than Hannibal would have liked for Will, not really furnished to Will’s tastes, but Will had set fire to his first suite. Hannibal hadn’t been sure if he’d been in love with Will until that moment – seeing Will’s look of defiance as the flames hissed and slithered over the walls.

Now Will made a small noise and did his post dinner stretch.

“May I be excused?”

He sounded intensely bored.

Hannibal contemplated the advantages of holding Will here against his will. He had more than a few times, and had languished in Will’s bristling silence. 

But tonight that wouldn’t be necessary.

“You may be excused,” Hannibal said.

“Thank fuck,” Will sighed. Hannibal glowered at Will for his language and Will grinned in that way, the way which made Hannibal stop anything he was doing. Hannibal was still stunned as Will’s footsteps faded down the long corridor to his suite.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal expected the turn of the lock to his suite, expected the furtive footsteps across his carpet, and the weight of another man in bed with him.

That’s about all he could ever predict with Will.

And tonight Will was dripping wet, his pajamas sweat-drenched even as he peeled out of them, his boxer-briefs soaked with slick as he yanked them off. He was panting as he straddled Hannibal. The smell of him in heat made Hannibal’s cock harden before Will had even pulled his pajama bottoms down.

Will jerked Hannibal’s cock roughly. Hannibal was still hardening when Will slid him inside. The feeling of Will around him, burning and wet, made Hannibal moan.

Will rode him hard, until the only sound was their heavy breathing and their bodies slapping together. Hannibal felt Will tightening around him, felt his own orgasm building. He grabbed Will around the hips, and with a growl, flipped Will onto his back. He sank in, quick and hard, knotting Will.

“Oh fuck, fuck _yes_ ,” Will said, digging red crescents into Hannibal’s shoulders. He bucked and whimpered as he came. Hannibal came soon after, feeling Will pulse around him.

The sheets were drenched well before morning, and Hannibal was dizzy from fucking and coming. But Will lay right next to him, face radiant from sex and the early morning sunlight coming through the windows.

They looked at one another and for a moment, Hannibal had hope.

Will grimaced and got up. He didn’t look at Hannibal, didn’t say anything, didn’t even bother collecting his pajamas. He did take a towel from Hannibal’s bathroom, and wrapped it around his waist before leaving.

In the roaring silence, Hannibal remembered why he despised him: though their mating had been arranged, Will had bewitched Hannibal. And he hated him for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal takes Will to a fancy party.

The suit was the finest thing Will had ever worn -- tailor-made to fit him precisely -- and he wanted to burn it. The whole thing, from the charcoal jacket and pants, the blue shirt, and black tie. All of it, smoldering and turned to ash.

Beverly adjusted his tie (might as well be a noose) and said: “Jesus, Will, you look like you’re going to a funeral.”

“Isn’t it?” he tried to sound light, instead he just sounded bitter.

Beverly rolled her eyes.

“You’re lucky to even be here after torching your first suite. Much less going to some fancy dinner party.”

“Hannibal just likes to torture me,” Will said as she turned him around to check the back of his suit.

Beverly snorted.

“He _likes_ you, stupid.”

Will frowned.

“But I’m just his concubine.”

“Please. I’ve worked for Hannibal for nearly ten years and I’ve never seen him so smitten. Even after your little fire trick. He’s actually been _more_ smitten since.”

Will felt something odd, as if his suit actually didn’t fit right.

“There.”

Beverly ruffled Will’s hair.

“You really need a haircut --”

“No.”

Hannibal would probably like that too much, and Will wasn’t about to give him an inch, smitten or not.

Beverly sighed, not for the first time during the final preparation and suit-fitting. Will wonders if it’s too late to fake being sick. Spend the night cowering in his suite and reading fishing manuals. 

“Well, that’s the best I can do,” Beverly said. “I swear to God, if you fuck up that suit, even a little, I will _kill_ you.”

“You’re the best personal assistant I’ve ever had,” he said as she collected her things.

“I’m the only one you’ve had.”

He caught her hand as she headed out of his suite, and squeezed it.

“Thank you,” he said.

* * *

 During the dinner portion of the party, he was trapped, sitting at Hannibal’s side. The prize pet, Will thought, as they toasted.

He didn’t talk to anyone, even when they tried to talk to him, and he mostly pushed his food around the plate. He was acting like a child but he didn’t particularly care, because it annoyed Hannibal. Hannibal was too polite to glare, but he wet his lips in that way, the way he did when he was irritated. Will liked it when he got Hannibal to wet his lips, and not just because Hannibal had very sensuous lips.

It was finally time for cocktails, and the dinner party found itself let out onto the terrace. Will weaseled away from Hannibal and scurried along the edges, avoiding people and conversation.

He drifted, passing pillars wound with ivy, fountains, and couches where people sat laughing, drinking, and talking. It was like being on a boat, and looking at the shore as he went by. The low ache again: for rivers, for home. Reaching the edge of the terrace, and the railing, helped. He gazed into the glowing city, stories and stories down, and the river which wound through. Red, gold, and white lights glinted off the river, distracting him.

He wondered why he was ever there, not for the first time. It was bitter as anise on the tongue.

“There you are,” Hannibal said, coming up behind him. “Enjoying the view?”

“No,” Will said while looking at the view.

He handed Will a champagne glass and Will took it, downing the entire thing in one gulp, just so he could see Hannibal’s lips pucker just slightly with annoyance.

“Come with me,” Hannibal said. It wasn’t an order, but it wasn’t a request, either.

Will was bored by then, and curious about who Hannibal would inflict on him, so he let Hannibal lead them to a group of couches. Hannibal introduced Will to an entire cluster of people, alas, and Will was stuck enduring some overly coiffed woman talking about a _dreadful_ concert she’d been to recently. Everyone laughed politely at very precise intervals, like a concert of its own.

Will drank more champagne and Dr. and Lydia Fell joined their group -- and _that_ was a name Will knew. He perked, and went to stand next to Dr. Fell.

“Dr. Fell, I think I’ve read your monograph on time of death by insect activity.”

“Oh, have you,” Dr. Fell said.

Will noticed Hannibal smiling at him for making polite conversation. Just like a good little concubine should.

“Oh yes, I have a master’s in criminal psychology.”

“Wonders never cease,” Dr. Fell said, and laughed. Everyone else but Hannibal laughed, and at Will’s expense. As though a mere concubine wouldn’t be intelligent enough to have a master’s degree.

But it was too late for Dr. Fell.

“It’s interesting though, how much your monograph mirrored that of Matthew Brown’s, a brilliant investigator. I’m curious, Dr. Fell, why your monograph is so much like Mr. Brown’s that they seem to be the same document?”

Polite smiles waned from everyone’s faces.

“What are you implying?” Dr. Fell asked after a minute.

“Nothing, just commenting on how alike the two monographs are.”

“Will, if I might have a word,” Hannibal said.

He took Will by the arm, right above the elbow, and half dragged him inside. Will thought of actively digging his heels in, but decided he would like to have _some_ dignity, even if it was in front of people who talked a lot but said nothing.

Hannibal propelled them to the end of the hall, and the coat closet. Behind the desk, Price and Zeller stood suddenly at attention, as if they had been faithfully aware and guarding coats instead of playing Go Fish.

“Sir!” Zeller said.

“Sir, is there something we can --”

“Please leave us for about fifteen minutes.”

Price and Zeller scampered away. Hannibal took Will into the dim forest of the coat closet. Fur and leather and wool buffeted Will as Hannibal forced him into the back, against the wall. Hannibal kept him pinned there, with a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“Officially I should chastise you,” Hannibal said. “My out of control concubine, tarnishing my image. Unofficially, however . . .”

Hannibal leaned in, his body pressing against Will’s, the cloth of their suits rasping

“Whaddaya gonna do -- spank me?” Will said.

Hannibal smiled a very small smile. His face was getting dangerously, enticingly close, and his hands cupped Will’s face and then there was warm, soft pressure against Will’s lips.

Hannibal was kissing him. For a second Will wanted nothing more than to cling to Hannibal, claw angry ribbons down his shoulders and back while he kissed him. He opened his mouth and Hannibal made a surprised noise.

But then -- Will remembered he hated Hannibal. Not as a person; it was mostly on principal, and irrational because none of this was Hannibal’s fault, either. He didn’t ask for an arranged marriage -- albeit the kind with a concubine -- either.

So he shoved Hannibal away. Hannibal looked a little unfocused, and bewildered.

Will needed control of the situation, and fast. So he unbuckled his belt and fumbled out of his pants, just enough that he could press his naked ass back against Hannibal.

Hannibal grunted with what sounded like surprise, but one could never be entirely sure with him. Will felt Hannibal’s hands scrabble at his hips, felt a surge of triumph before Hannibal turned him around and pressed him back against the wall.

“Tell me ‘no’ and I’ll stop,” Hannibal whispered.

Will didn’t know what to say to that. He shivered as Hannibal’s hand, large and confident, reached down into his underwear, cradling his hard cock. Will moaned. Hannibal began stroking Will’s cock, slowly, rubbing languid circles around the head, running his fingers lightly over the shaft. Finally, finally, he began to tighten his grip, and to make his strokes harder, until Will was shuddering, panting, trying to fuck Hannibal’s fist.

Hannibal’s lips hovered over Will’s, and Will turned his head just in time, arching as Hannibal’s hand went all the way down to the base, and then back up, his fingers tight and wonderful.

Hannibal’s lips pressed to Will’s throat, at first just resting, and then hot and sucking, teeth scraping, tongue lapping. Will shivered and Hannibal’s fist tightened further, in time with a sucking scrape.

“Good,” Will muttered at one point, when there was just the sound of their ragged breathing, Will’s belt buckle clinking, and Hannibal’s hand against Will’s cock.

Red and orange began pulsing behind Will’s eyes, and Hannibal bit, just lightly, and squeezed Will’s cock just exactly and there was a burst of heat as Will let out a choked noise and came.

“Shit,” he gasped after a minute.

Hannibal wiped cum off his hand with his handkerchief. He seemed to be deciding something, and when he did, Will saw a cold, impassive expression fall over Hannibal.

Hannibal straightened his own suit and hair, and turned and walked away, leaving Will heaving and quivering and wet, half undressed, slumped against the wall. Will watched Hannibal’s retreating figure, head spinning, and all he wanted was more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write more except I thought about them having sex in the coat closet and my hand slipped. Repeatedly. 
> 
> I did go back and tweak the first "chapter", so to speak, such as removing Will's dogs for Reasons. So he is now dogless and stuck in a tower with Hannibal. What could go wrong?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitchen sex and some admissions. Also: snails.

It most certainly was revenge for the coat closet.

The sapphire and black robe slid silkily under Hannibal’s fingers. Will moaned again, arching a little as he sank deeper on to Hannibal’s cock. The robe fell off one of Will’s pale shoulders. Hannibal stopped nipping and sucking Will’s nipple, admiring how crimson it was, a blood red bloom to match the fading purple one on Will’s throat. Hannibal tried cradling Will in his arms, and Will let him, bracing his hands on the back of Hannibal’s chair and fucking him hard enough the chair shuddered and creaked, the sound echoing through Hannibal’s empty kitchen. Will bent, like a bow, trying to force Hannibal’s knot into him. But he wasn’t in heat, and he was too tight, so he rolled his hips, rubbing the rim of his entrance against Hannibal’s knot and whimpering. The sound itself made Hannibal come. Will spent a few more minutes, rocking on Hannibal’s softening cock, before he too came, with an absolutely sinful sound. It made Hannibal’s dick, still inside Will, twitch just a little. Will slumped over Hannibal and for a moment there was only spent breaths and peace between them.

Will pulled himself off Hannibal with a grimace, and, without asking, took one of Hannibal’s hand towels and used it to wipe between his legs. Hannibal had plenty of hand towels and it was nothing that couldn’t be washed out, so he allowed it. Besides, Will was courteous enough to drop it in the used linens hamper.

Hannibal felt that his clothes and hair were very eskew, not the least of which was his cock still sticking out of his trousers from where Will had unzipped it before sucking him very enthusiastically. And his hair must have first become disheveled when Will had come into the kitchen wearing that silk robe, and then pounced on Hannibal before he had much time to register what was happening.

Now Hannibal stared a little dizzily at Will, who was wrapped securely in his silk robe, and looking out one of the kitchen windows into the twilit city. He acted as though Hannibal wasn’t there.

The oven timer dinged, and Hannibal tucked himself in and patted the loose ends of his hair. He washed his hands before removing the French bread from the oven, and setting it on a rack to cool.

“I’m making escargots à la bourguignonne if you would like any,” Hannibal said.

“Snails,” Will said.

“Yes.”

“They use ‘love darts’ as part of their mating ritual. Are you trying to ensnare me with a love dart, doctor?”

Will, insolent thing that he was, really should have been divorced and gotten rid of long ago. But his face, illuminated by white kitchen light, and the golden triangle of skin at his throat, the way his robe fell around his naked body, and the way his tongue and his mind were quick, so quick -- well. Hannibal was already half hard again.

He turned on a second oven and began mashing the garlic he’d set out. There was no sound except for Hannibal preparing snails and Will yawning on occasion. Will did take a swig of the chardonnay Hannibal used in the snails, straight from the bottle, which made Hannibal sigh, but otherwise there was almost blissful silence between them. Hannibal rather enjoyed Will like this: soft and languid, his blue-hazel eyes dark and drowsy, his curls wafting everywhere.

When the snails were ready, the French bread cooled and sliced, and the dry rosé having breathed, Hannibal set the snails and bread out on the kitchen island, and gave Will a small plate with a spoon and a fork. Rather than waiting or transferring snails to his plate, Will speared one and popped it right into his mouth.

“This is delicious,” Will said, and he was only half as resentful as he usually was.

Hannibal puffed up.

“I should hope so. It took the better part of the day to prepare the snails.”

“You prepared the snails from scratch?” Will blinked.

“Of course. Otherwise you’d be eating canned snails.”

“Heaven forbid,” Will said.

He ate and instead of looking becoming, he just looked sad and tired.

Hannibal gave him a glass of the wine.

“A toast?” Will asked.

“To what?”

“The high class life of a concubine.”

“Your life, Will,” Hannibal said gently. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I am a concubine though, am I not?”

“You’re the only one who seeks to make a point of it. I certainly don’t. It’s merely a legal definition.”

“How do you define me, then?”

“My companion, if you would agree to that. Sexually or not.”

“Companion,” Will said. “It has such a polite ring to it. It was the same term your aunt used when she came for me.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Hannibal said. “That was only ever the intention for you -- to be my companion. And I yours, ideally.”

Will snorted.

“You could have said ‘no’ to the arrangement, Will.  And you certainly had more say than I did in the matter.”

Will said nothing.

Hannibal’s aunt, Murasaki, had told him that Will had nowhere else to go. It was either to the omega shelter, or out on the streets where alphas would certainly prey on him. Hannibal couldn’t imagine Will being worried about being preyed on, or enjoying anyone’s charity.

Will drank his wine and stared up at a framed print of Monet’s  _ Fisherman's Cottage on the Cliffs at Varengeville _ .

“Seems foreign here,” Will said.

“What does?”

“The print of this painting. Those flowers are a mere shadow of a fantasy here in the city. This maze of glass and concrete.”

“Indeed. But whenever I feel the need for escape from the maze, as you say, I do have a cottage out in the country.”

Will’s eyebrows went up with what looked like surprise, and then there was a hopeful glow in his face. But that died quickly and he went back to looking bored.

That glow enticed Hannibal, and made him fumble for something, anything else to coax out of Will rather than disdain or boredom.

“I heard you’re going to a baseball game tomorrow,” Hannibal said.

“Who told you?” Will bristled.

“No-one . . . forgive me. I just saw you’d purchased the ticket.”

“Saw, or were monitoring?”

“Both. It is my finances, Will.”

“And your money, and I should be grateful for the nice spending account?”

“I merely meant I like to keep tabs on my own investments.”

“So that’s what I am now. An investment,” Will finished his wine. He poured himself more.

Hannibal decided not to answer. He could have said Will was a fine investment, or not merely an investment, but either way Will would fight him. Instead, Hannibal said:

“I am not concerned with the money or the question of investments. I am concerned about you going to the game alone.”

“Oh, here we go,” Will took a particularly large gulp of wine.

“You’ll be passing through some dangerous parts of town.”

“No I won’t. I’ll be walking. Walking through some dangerous parts of town.”

“Will . . .”

“I used to be a cop, I’ll be fine.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

“No, it wouldn’t do for your investment to be harmed.”

Hannibal paused for a second, considering the ramifications of what he would say next.

“Will, I do care about you,” he said. “Despite our . . . differences.”

Will huffed but there was a decidedly nervous edge to it. As though Hannibal’s admission made him anxious.

“At least let me come with you, for your safety,” Hannibal said.

Will laughed.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked.

“No. Of course not.”

Will glowered at him and drank the rest of his wine, rather angrily.

“Fine,” he spat. “Come if you want. But my ticket’s in the cheap seats. And no, I’m not using your family’s fucking luxury box.”

“Then I shall sit in the cheap seats.”

“And buy me peanuts and cracker jacks.”

“And one of those giant foam fingers.”

Will seemed on the verge of smiling as he put his empty glass down on the island. He drew his silk robe tightly around him. As he headed for the kitchen door, his fingers grazed Hannibal’s arm. Will paused and Hannibal could feel his burning warmth, and smell wine and sex all over him, all only a kiss away.

Then Will was out the door and gone.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will and Hannibal go to a baseball game, have a surprise encounter, and play a game of quid pro quo.

It was almost . . . pleasant.

A light sprinkle of rain barely dampened the sidewalks, but the smell of it hung sweet and hot in the summer air, and, for a second, blotted out the stink of the city. Will took a deep breath.

It had been a good afternoon at the baseball game, even with Hannibal tagging along. He’d dressed in a tie and a vest and yet seemed relaxed enough, unbothered by the heat. He didn’t say much except to ask Will what he wanted. Will was surprised that Hannibal waited on him and brought him food, and then he was mischievous, asking for increasingly more ridiculous things to see if Hannibal would actually get it. Hannibal had brought everything, including the hot dog and pizza in nachos with cotton candy and a pretzel slurpee. Will had thrown it all away, of course -- what kind of insane person would actually eat that stuff? -- and there was the tiniest of smiles on Hannibal’s face, mostly in the crinkles around his eyes.

Hannibal also seemed to know something about baseball. He might curl a lip, or his eyes widened marginally throughout the game. It intrigued Will, and, as they walked home in the misty rain, he wondered how much Hannibal did know.

He was also thinking about how he didn’t want to go back, except --

They headed down one of those quiet and abandoned side streets, where the weeds grew tall and they and one other man were the only ones there. He jostled Will hard as he passed, shoving him into a brick wall. Will saw a silver flash and then felt a prickle against his side, right where his kidneys were.

“Don’t move,” the man said.

He grabbed Will’s wallet, which had nothing more than receipts, really, and then hauled Will up by his shoulder, pressing the blade to his throat.

“Hand over your wallet too,” he said to Hannibal.

Hannibal’s face was impassive, but he reached slowly for the wallet in his inner jacket pocket. The knife at Will’s throat slid down and away and the man pushed Will aside. So he was either stupid or supremely arrogant, and thought Will was no danger.

“Move faster,” the man brandished his switch blade at Hannibal.

Hannibal looked at Will, and then fumbled with his wallet, dropping it.

The man sprang at Hannibal. Will leapt after him, and saw Hannibal’s blank expression before he tackled the man. The man kicked him, and punched him, a quick, hard jab, a bony little fist, and then took off down the alley.

Will got up, muttering. He’d have a bruise in his ribs tomorrow, and his shoulder felt funny, like an itch but deeper and wider. Then he noticed it.

“Is that the knife?” he asked Hannibal, to be sure he wasn’t just imagining it. It was a bit surreal to have it jutting out of him like that.

Hannibal who was collecting his wallet, looked at Will.

“Yes,” he said.

“Shit,” Will said.

“Hold still,” Hannibal said coming up to Will.  

There was something about his tone which made arguing impossible.

The aching pain began to set in while Hannibal examined the wound.

“It’s mostly superficial,” Hannibal said. “And it’s a clean cut with a clean blade. It will be easy enough to tend to.”

“Don’t I need to go to an emergency room? And we need to report this to the police.”

Hannibal smiled.

“I used to be an emergency room surgeon. You’ll be perfectly fine.”

He didn’t answer the police report question, but Will did have a knife in his shoulder, so he was willing to do what Hannibal suggested.

Hannibal told him to hold perfectly still and carefully removed the blade, which clattered to the ground. He wrapped Will’s shoulder tightly in his lightweight summer scarf.

“Keep pressure on it,” Hannibal said.

“Okay,” Will said.

As they walked out of the side street, Will was suddenly cold and exhausted. So much so that when Hannibal slid his arm around Will’s waist, Will allowed him.

* * *

 Will didn’t look at Hannibal as he cleaned the wound. Instead he stared at the Monet print on Hannibal’s kitchen wall. That soft coral colored house overlooking the sea, and surrounded by a froth of pink, red, and blue flowers. He imagined himself sitting on that cliffside, and the drowsy scent of the flowers mingling with the sea salt. Of watching the ships come in. The sun setting on blue green waters while he drank whiskey, his hands still smelling of grease and motor oil after a long day’s work on boat engines.

Hannibal had a syringe.

“What are you doing?” Will asked.

“This is a local anesthetic. It will help with the pain. You also won’t feel me stitching you up.”

“Okay,” Will said vaguely.  

He watched Hannibal inject the area around his wound, and the numbness was more foreign than the aching pain.

“I don’t expect you’ll be in too much pain after we’re done,” Hannibal said as he prepared a needle. “But if it gets bad I’ll write you a prescription for something which will be more effective.”

Will nodded.

Hannibal leaned in and Will could feel his body heat.

Hannibal began sewing. Will could tell he was agile, even if Will didn’t know much about medicine. He watched for a minute, fascinated by the way his skin puckered and then came together.

“So, Doc,” he said, “why did you stop being a surgeon?”

Silence.

It didn’t matter. Hannibal was obviously concentrating.

“Quid pro quo,” Hannibal said, voice muffled by the surgical mask he wore. “You share something and I share something in exchange. If you don’t mind.”

“Yes, I fucking mind,” Will growled.

But anger was too tiring to sustain after being stabbed, so Will sagged a little and found he was curious.

“Hold still, please,” Hannibal said of Will’s sagging.

“Fine. Quid pro quo,” Will said, straightening.

Hannibal must be _basking,_ but Will could only see his eyes, dark and glittering, above the surgical mask.

“Someone died on my operating table,” Hannibal said after a moment.

“What? Just one person?”

“One too many I’m afraid.”

“Why did you become a doctor in the first place? Your family is filthy rich, you don’t even need to work.”

“Quid pro quo.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Hannibal stuck the needle in.

“Why did you agree to be my companion?”

There were so many reasons for that. He was tired of drifting. From city to city, port to port, without anyone, just this lone omega who desperately wanted work in the boatyards. People looked at him with pity, even as they declined him, because he was too old to be unmated and childless. He was probably barren at this point. Will wouldn’t care about being on his own except he _felt_ it, by god he felt it. In hotel rooms at night, eating KFC on his own and watching TV. Sleeping in his beat up, rusting old Honda, under a thin blanket and shivering from the cold. Out on the streets alone at night, passing restaurant after restaurant packed with couples.

It was out in the streets, in a meaner part of town with greasy little takeaway restaurants and pawn shops, that he was jostled by some arrogant alpha, who Will had to give cheek to, and who’d beaten Will hard and bloody until he and had to drag himself to the nearest emergency room, fractured ribs, bruised liver and all. And then when it was clear he’d no insurance and no-where else to go, he’d been dumped into an omega shelter. By then his car had been towed or stolen, gone, and so was what was left of his things: fishing poles and flies, a few books, his waders. And so the only place he had was the crowded rooms of the shelter, that pitiful halfway house for omegas, who, like him, had no-where else and needed protection. Will healed and watched the younger omegas getting work or finding mates. He stayed and that Chilton, in charge of the shelter, oogled him as if he wanted to dissect Will.

When Lady Murasaki had come with her proposition, it seemed like an answer at the time.

Yet none of these things had made Will agree to the marriage, even if it was a lesser marriage rather than a full marriage.

“I had a dream,” Will said. “A literal one. I have a very peculiar and very . . . potent . . . dreams.”

He could hear the tremor in this voice.

Hannibal was quiet for a minute. Then he said:

“I became a doctor because I wanted to do good and not just rely on my family’s wealth and reputation. It was obviously a better use of my time than being in a reality TV series.”

Will smiled at that.

“What was your dream about?” Hannibal asked.

Will stilled. He tried to think of a convincing lie as Hannibal finished stitching and cleaned his sutures. But he was too weary and couldn’t find a lie.

To the truth then, and all its consequences.

“You.” Will said. “It was about you.”

Hannibal’s surprise was palpable.

“You hadn’t even met me,” he said.

Will didn’t answer.

Hannibal placed a bandage over Will’s sewn wound.

“Have you married anyone before me?” Will asked.

“No. Certainly not,” Hannibal took off the surgical mask and he seemed amused.

“Was this dream of me good?” he asked, peeling off his gloves.

“No.”

It was better than good. It was just like this, Will thought. That Hannibal comforted, protected, and cherished him. And held him until all his lonely wanderings dissipated.

But it -- this -- was _too_ good. It couldn’t be true, or last.

Hannibal smiled though, a gentle little smile, and leaned in. He kissed the bare skin on the top of Will’s shoulder.

It felt like being stabbed all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the anonymous print of a painting in Hannibal’s kitchen to Monet’s Fisherman's Cottage on the Cliffs at Varengeville. I thought a) the painting needed more specificity b) it should demonstrate something of Hannibal’s taste. It also seemed like something Will would enjoy. 
> 
> Why a print and not a painting, you ask? Steam and cooking oils from the kitchen would certainly wreak havoc on an actual painting, even if framed, so best keep to prints and other types of art.


End file.
